were not often taken to town, so I remember clearly one Sunday when we were all put into our best clothes and Papa took us. For some inexplicable reason I was dressed like a boy in my brother’s clothes. We were taken to Mitchell Park to ride on Nellie the elephant. That was the first time I realised that we belonged to a group called non-Europeans7. I sat on a bench and the park ranger was promptly on to me, shooing me off the bench. My father came as quickly to my rescue. He whisked me off the bench and distracted my attention away from something he resented deeply, but did not think I was ready to understand. He was determined not to have our day spoilt. He bought us ice creams and settled us on the grass to enjoy these and then we had our rides on Nellie. A year later I visited Nellie’s birthday with my brothers and cousins and we received gifts of handkerchiefs and balloons and buns.
I was a little more than five years old. Sleep had not quite left me when Ma, excited to give me the news, awakened me and told me I had a little brother.
“Brother!”, I cried, “I don’t want a brother. I want a sister. Where did the brother come from? Let him go away.”
My curiosity was however roused and I followed Ma. I saw Amina Ma lying on the floor. Dai Ma, the traditional midwife, was beside her and there was blood. It was a fearful sight and I retreated into my bed and lay there quietly until Papa came and picked me up and took me to see my little brother who was lying in Ma’s lap. Ma smiled at me and said, “Come and see your beautiful brother”. I looked at him but remained pouting. If they had to bring a new baby to our home, why could they not have brought a girl? There were so many boys in our house and I was the only girl. I needed a girl to play with. What would I do with the boy?
The new brother was laid to sleep in the jhorie, a cradle made of cloth suspended from a red and green cradle stand. Dai Ma looked after him, sitting nearby, getting on with other chores like cleaning the vegetables for cooking while she rocked the jhorie by pulling the twine attached to the cradle with her big toe. I have an image of myself bending into the jhorie in an attempt to see my baby brother and nearly falling on top of him as Dai Ma screamed and Amina Ma rushed in to arrest an imminent catastrophe.
As baby Mahomed, who we called Bhai, grew, I came to love him and showered him with kisses. Ma could not restrain herself from teasing me.
“You didn’t want this brother, now why do you smother him with kisses?”
I protested, “He is my brother!”
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